Emma felt the small velvet box in her dressing gown pocket and clenched it tightly in her palm. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure it echoed through the entire flat. Behind the wall, the monotonous drone of the TV played—Oliver was watching the evening news, as he had every night for the twenty-seven years they’d been married.
“Emma, fancy a cuppa?” Oliver called from the living room.
“Be right there,” she replied, still gripping the box. “Just finishing up.”
She stood by the kitchen window, watching the neighbour’s children kick a football between parked cars. An ordinary weekday scene, yet today it felt weighted, as if she were seeing it for the last time.
The box warmed in her hand. Inside were gold cufflinks with small diamonds—a gift she’d spent three months saving for, skimping on her own creams and medicine, wanting to surprise Oliver for their anniversary, to show him how much he meant to her.
But yesterday changed everything.
“You coming or not?” Oliver called impatiently. “The programme’s already started.”
Emma took a deep breath and walked into the living room. Oliver sat in his favourite armchair, wearing a stretched-out jumper and pyjama bottoms. Two mugs of tea and an unfolded newspaper sat on the coffee table.
“Hey, remember Claire Thompson from our school?” Oliver asked without looking up.
Emma froze, the mug halfway to her lips. Claire was exactly who had kept her up all night.
“Vaguely,” she said carefully. “Why?”
“Ran into her near the shops today. Said she’s just divorced. Husband left her for some younger woman. Thirty years of marriage—can you imagine?”
Emma set the mug down. Her hands trembled.
“What’s she doing now?”
“Living alone in some tiny flat, working odd cleaning jobs. Shame, really. She was a nice girl back then.”
Oliver shook his head and flipped channels. Adverts flickered across the screen.
Emma stayed silent. She couldn’t tell him she’d seen that meeting herself. That she’d stood in the next aisle over, heard every word, watched Oliver embrace Claire, saw them arrange to meet tomorrow evening.
“Emma, you’re awfully quiet,” Oliver finally glanced at her. “Feeling poorly?”
“No, just tired,” she forced a smile. “Work’s been mad.”
“Right. Best turn in early, then.”
He returned to the telly. Emma stood, pretending to clear the dishes. The cufflink box in her pocket suddenly felt heavy as stone.
She remembered spotting them three months ago in the jeweller’s window, imagining Oliver’s delight. He’d always liked nice things but rarely indulged—said family came first.
Family. What a joke.
Emma took out the box and opened it. The cufflinks sparkled under the kitchen light. Beautiful, expensive. The sort he’d never buy himself.
“Love, just popping to the shop,” Oliver called from the hall. “No bread left.”
“Alright,” she answered.
The door clicked shut. Emma looked out the window and saw Oliver walking—not towards the shops, but to the bus stop.
She closed the box and went to the bedroom. Her dressing table held framed photos—their wedding, their son James’s birth, their first seaside holiday. Smiling faces, hugs. Had it all been a lie?
She picked up their wedding photo. Oliver in his suit, her in a long veil. Young, in love, full of plans. They’d been twenty-four. A whole life ahead.
“Mum?” The doorbell rang, followed by James’s voice. “It’s me!”
Emma hid the box in the drawer and opened the door. James stood there, arms full of groceries.
“Jamie, lovely to see you,” she hugged him.
“Thought I’d drop by,” he said, unpacking in the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”
“At the shops,” she lied. “Back soon.”
Jamie filled the kettle.
“Mum, you alright? You look pale.”
“Just work stress.”
He nodded. “Anyway, met my new mate Tom at work. Decent bloke, single. Maybe you and Dad could visit this weekend? Show you the new place.”
Emma nodded, barely hearing. Inside, the questions spiralled. How long had this affair been going on? Did Oliver love Claire? Would he leave?
“Mum?” James waved a hand in front of her face.
“Sorry, love. What about the flat?”
He sighed. “Never mind. Just thinking—why not get a dog? You always wanted one. Now you’ve got time.”
“A dog?”
“Yeah. Keep you company. You two rattling round here alone…”
Alone. How right he was.
“Jamie,” she sat across from him, “are you happy with Sophie?”
He blinked. “Course I am. Why?”
“What if she cheated?”
“Mum!” He nearly choked on his tea. “Sophie wouldn’t—where’s this coming from?”
Emma backtracked. “Nothing. Just something on telly.”
James frowned. “Well… I’d leave. Couldn’t stay with someone who betrayed me.”
Betrayed. The perfect word.
They talked an hour longer before Oliver returned, swinging a loaf of bread, grinning.
“Jamie! Good to see you, lad.”
“Hi Dad. Mum’s been odd today.”
Oliver chuckled. “Ah, met old Claire Thompson earlier—remember her? Just divorced.”
James shrugged. “Not really. But sorry for her, I guess.”
Oliver nodded, turning on the telly.
James left soon after. Once the door shut, silence settled. Oliver watched a film, Emma pretended to read. Words blurred.
Next morning, Oliver kissed her cheek, wished her a good day. Left as if nothing had changed.
Work was impossible. Colleagues asked if she was ill; she blamed headaches.
That evening, Emma cooked his favourite—roast and mash—lit candles, set the table.
Oliver raised an eyebrow. “What’s the occasion?”
“None. Just wanted to.”
Over dinner, he was charming, attentive, almost like the young man she’d married. She nearly convinced herself yesterday was a dream.
But as they finished, he said, “Listen, I’m off to Rob’s—wants to show me his new fishing rod.”
Rob lived clear across town. A ninety-minute trip by bus.
“Can’t it wait?”
“Nah, promised him.”
Oliver changed and left. Emma cleared up, then took out the cufflinks again.
Beautiful. Costly. Meant as a symbol of love. Now they felt like a joke.
Next day, she returned them to the jeweller.
“Any issues?” the clerk asked.
“No,” she said. “Just the marriage.”
At home, Oliver got ready to leave again—this time, something about car repairs.
“Oliver,” she stopped him.
“Yeah?”
“Remember what tomorrow is?”
He frowned.
“Our anniversary.”
Oliver slapped his forehead. “Bloody hell! Sorry, love. We’ll celebrate proper, promise.”
He kissed her and left. Emma sat at the computer, drafted a listing for the house. Hesitated before clicking *Publish*.
Twenty-seven years. A son. Grandchildren one day. Was it all disposable?
But what was the point, staying with a liar?
She clicked.
The next morning, Oliver woke cheerful.
“Happy anniversary, love.”
“Thanks.”
“Thought we might go out? Dinner, theatre?”
She shrugged. “We’ll see.”
He blinked but said nothing, leaving for work.
By afternoon, viewings were booked.
That evening, Oliver returned with roses and chocolates.
“For my wonderful wife.”
Emma took them, feeling nothing. A bribe, she thought.
“Thanks.”
“So, where to?”
“Oliver. We need to talk.”
His smile faded.
“I know about Claire.”
He paled. “What?”
“Everything. Your lies. I saw you at the café.”
Silence.
“Emma, it’s not—”
She pulled out phone photos—Oliver holding Claire’s hand, kissing her.
Oliver bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”
“For cheating or getting caught?”
“Both.”
“Do you love her?”
A pause. Then, “Yes.”
Those two words broke her.
“Go to her, then.”
“But James—our family—”
“James is grown. And we’re not a family anymore.”
Oliver packed a bag quietly. At the door, he hesitated.
“I’ll ring James, explain.”
“Do.”
“Emma… I never meant to hurt you.”
She turned away.
He left.
Alone, Emma stared at the roses, already wilting. Inside the drawer, the empty box remained—a reminder of the gift that cost her marriage.
Not because she bought it. But because she never got to give it.
